The game continued like that, and the refs were apparently not interested in adding to Winnipeg’s penalty minutes. While we had a revolving door on our box for the softest of soft penalties, Winnipeg still had zero minutes. And it wasn’t like they were playing clean tonight; the refs just weren’t calling anything. Slashing? No whistle. Tripping? No call. Crashing our net and sending Hoskins sprawling? Nothing.
Beside me on the bench during the second, Vasily muttered a string of what I assumed was Russian curses. “What do these assholes have to do to get a penalty?” He flailed a gloved hand. “Shiv someone?”
“Don’t give them any ideas,” I said.
Cams laughed dryly. Vasily gave a quiet huff that was in the ballpark of a laugh. I didn’t really blame him—I was getting pissed, too.
I glanced up at the scoreboard, which brought my blood pressure down a bit. We were up 4-0. They were probably trying to antagonize us so we’d get pissed off and focus on retribution instead of hockey; not exactly an uncommon strategy. Once our concentration was broken, they’d go on the offense and score.
I elbowed Vasily to get his attention and told him what I was thinking. He quirked his lips for a moment, then nodded. Turning to me, he said, “Maybe we should keep scoring so they can be the ones who are pissed off.”
I grinned. So did he. A little shiver went up my spine, and I let myself imagine for a few seconds what we might do next time we were alone.
Then I returned my attention to the game at hand. If we were going to do this, we had to be able to concentrate on hockey without distracting each other. Especially on a night when the other team was trying their level best to distract us.
We passed our thoughts down the line to our teammates—don’t take the bait, just focus on hockey—and there were nods up and down the bench. It would be hard, because it was never easy to play through someone trying to crack your concentration, but we could do this. Even if we ended up losing, it wouldn’t be because we let them throw us off our game.
Shortly after that, I went out for my shift with Vasily and Cams. Winnipeg’s boys were still bound and determined to get under our skin, too, and the refs clearly still didn’t give a shit. One blatantly tripped me right in front of a refanda linesman. There was a whistle, but only because I’d been offside. No penalty for the trip, because of course not.
Smoke started curling out of Vasily’s ears. I skated up beside him. “Let it go.”
He turned furious eyes on me. “They can’t just get away with?—”
“The refs aren’t going to do anything,” I said. “But if you lose your cool, you’re going to end up in the box.” I nudged him with my elbow. “Take your anger out on the back of their net.”
His jaw worked, but then he pushed out a breath and nodded. “You’re right. You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right.” I winked. “Glad you’re learning that early on.”
Just as I’d hoped, that made him laugh. He rolled his eyes, and we joined our teammates for the faceoff.
Vasily must’ve taken my words to heart, too, because the puck had barely dropped before he snatched it away, bullied his way past three Winnipeg players, and slammed it into the back of their net. His shout of triumph gave me goose bumps beneath my gear. Fuck yeah. He was focused, and what could I say? He was hot when he was angry.
Now Winnipeg was even more pissed, and they cranked up the aggression. Coach Marks was apoplectic, screaming at the refs to “fucking call a penalty once in a goddamned while.” They threatened to eject him… and then promptly called a penalty onus.
That penalty resulted in a goal against, but we were still up 5-1. As frustrated as we all were, we kept our heads together. Kept pushing. Kept playing our game and refusing to take their bait.
And then…
It probably happened in the blink of an eye, but it seemed to play out in slow motion in front of me.
In the same moment a Winnipeg player grabbed the back of Vasily’s collar, he knocked his skate into Vasily’s. I watched in helpless horror as Vasily’s legs went out from under him and he fell back, landing hard on his shoulder.
Panic and fury zipped through me like a pair of adrenaline-coated lightning bolts.
And that was before I saw the grimace on Vasily’s face.
As he curled forward to grab…
Oh no.
His knee.
His right knee.
Before Vasily’s hand had even touched his own leg, my temper snapped. I got to that asshole who’d taken him down before the refs did, and I didn’t even remember throwing off mygloves before I threw a bare-fisted punch into his stupid fucking face.
We brawled, and we brawled hard. Fists flew. Hands on my arms tried to haul me away from him—I don’t even know if they were refs or teammates—but I shook them off and went for him again.
